Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2011
It's like stepping up to a golf ball.  A white glove grips my left hand and an 8 iron dangles in my right. I slowly ***** my tee into the moist ground. I place the white ball upon it. I think of the possibilities of what could go wrong when I strike the ball. I aim. I breathe. I think: back straight, arm straight, mind straight. I exhale. I swing. Then watch and wait, like hearing that sharp drone and waiting for the flat line to waver so I don't have to say, "I'm sorry, but there were complications."
Written by
Lilly Bug
3.0k
   Lilly Bug
Please log in to view and add comments on poems